“Nope,” I cut her off, heading for the door without bothering to dry my hands.
“Nice.” Harper scoffs, following me out. “Way to bond with your fan base.”
“Whatever,” I mumble as we walk back to the table where Masters is waiting. The sickening sushi has — blessedly — disappeared.
He gets to his feet, the keys to his SUV already in hand. “Miss Firestone, your meeting starts soon. We should leave shortly if you want to make it there on time.”
“Okay. We’ll pay. You bring the car around.”
He nods and disappears as we climb back into the booth to settle the bill. I feel Harper staring at me silently as I calculate the tip.
My brows lift. “What?”
“Nothing,” she says in a voice two octaves too high. “Absolutely nothing.”
I snort. “Do us both a favor — leave the acting to me.”
* * *
Sloan’s housein the Hills is just as I remember it. A sprawling, modern monstrosity filled with contemporary, Asian-inspired accents that an unfathomably expensive interior designer shipped in from regions unknown to promote a “zen” atmosphere. I wave Masters and Harper off from the driveway, promising to call them for a ride when the meeting is finished. I can tell Harper is torn between wanting alone time with her man and accompanying me inside but, after multiple assurances that I’ll be just fine on my own, she finally relents and drives away with him.
Walking past several ghastly lion statues lining the front walk, I ring the bell and wait, but there’s no answer. After a few moments, I have no choice other than to grasp one ornate oriental handle and enter uninvited. Unlocked, it swings in easily.
“Hello?”
My own voice echoes back at me in the sparsely decorated atrium.
“Sloan?”
No answer.
I’ve only been here once before, the day I auditioned for my role in the movie, but the open floor plan is easy to navigate. I wander through the house, calling out for Sloan, but he’s nowhere to be found — not in the kitchen or the living room or the music room or out on the deck by the pool. I’m on my way to check his yoga studio, feeling queasy again for the second time in as many hours at the prospect of seeing the spry director doing a downward facing dog pose, when a floorboard creaks behind me.
“He’s downstairs,” a disembodied voice says.
“AAH!” I jump about a foot into the air and whirl around, expecting a serial killer. It’s far worse — Grayson is standing silhouetted in the pool of light at the end of the hallway.
“Someone’s jumpy today.” His laugh carries down to me. “Too much coffee?”
I wish — I haven’t had coffee in so long, at this point I’d rob a Colombian bean farm for a cup, given half a chance. Pulse pounding, I plant my hands on my hips and glare at him.
“You snuck up on me!”
“Kat, if I was going to sneak up on you, you’d know it.”
“That makes no sense. The point ofsneakingis that your victim is unaware of said sneakiness. How would I possibly know?”
He laughs. “Because I’d be humming the soundtrack fromJaws. Obviously.”
I blink at him blankly.
“You know…” Those green irises glitter with humor, even at this distance. He sticks one hand up behind his head like a fin. “Da-dum…Daaaaa-dum.” He swerves his body down the hall, like he’s swimming toward me. It’s a ridiculous sight.
“You’re insane—”
“Da-dum…” He swivels again, both his chant and his steps speeding up. “Da-dum!”
“Dunn, you look like an idiot.” I laugh, despite myself.